


Tomtown Blues

by Jay Tryfanstone (tryfanstone)



Category: Tom of Finland - Kake
Genre: M/M, Multi, Yuletide 2015, Yuletide pinch hit, disguised meta, in the style of, not really porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5448365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryfanstone/pseuds/Jay%20Tryfanstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...I was determined that, in my drawings at least, gay men would be open and masculine, and the sex, no matter how heavy, would always be free and positive and every story would end happily!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomtown Blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MotherHulda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotherHulda/gifts).



Come. It is night, moonless, troll-black, ink-black, unread, unseen. Tonight, only you can see this palimpsest of dreams and sketches, the tangled forests and empty glades, the shifting sea and the gentle hills and winding, endless roads. Only you can see the sleeping houses, the silent workshops, the closed park gates, the towering heights of the motionless cranes of the docks. Here, in Tomtown, tonight only you can hear the dreaming crack of the lumberjack’s axe or the hushed growl of a over-tuned racing bike, the whisper of a loosened belt, the rhythmic creak of leather, a muffled gasp, an admiring murmur.

Come closer. Tom dreams. Only you can see his dreams, the eager men and smiling boys, the welcoming hands and proud, triumphant pricks. Only you see, delineated in black and white, ruddy with colour, sly and wicked and kind, the characters and structures and shape of Tomtown. Only you follow Tom past the park, by the prison, into the bar: along the promenade, through the garage, across the docks. Only you feel the wind in his hair as his fingers tighten on the throttle (his pencil, his prick) and the heavy, comforting warmth of the biker’s leather (uniform, flying jacket) across his shoulders. 

Only you see, as real as you believe them to be, Tom’s men.

Here is Errki. Tall as a tree, limber as a sapling, sleeping like a log. Tucked under his bed, his weathered boots, his discarded dungarees, the long, heavy shaft of his woodsman’s axe. His hands, a working man’s hands, fleshy and powerful, grip at the blankets and his feet flex as in his dreams...in his dreams the willing, wanton farm boys tumble and play in the friendly woods, under the blue skies of summer. “Come closer,” Errki whispers. “Come closer. Let me smell the sap on your fingers and the earth on your feet. I will fill you up with love as vast as the forest. I will catch the moon and the stars and lay them at your feet. Remember me, I will be the first of your lovers.”

“I remember,” Tom promises.

In Tom’s dreams the friendly trees of the forest grow tall and wild, spilling into the gardens and highways and parks of Tomtown. Among the pines, Tomas Nyland, park-keeper, clutches his hoe in his hand and chases after the naughty, naked boys.“Stop, stop!” he cries to the smirking, flowerbed-flattening, tree-roping, bare-assed, dick-swinging trespassers. “Stop! Wait for me!” In the tangled sheets of his bed he runs all night after the lovely pale curves of their fleeing backsides.

Beside Tomas, Jaakko waits. Every night he waits, shy and trembling, a teenager once more, at the gates to the park where in daylight he coaxs the tender shoots and sprouting seeds to verdant growth. “Oh, Tomas, Tomas,” Jaako whimpers in the lazy hazy boyish sunlight of his dreams. “Let me wrinkle up your uniform and throw away your cap. Hold me tight in the earthy, calloused grip of your hands, and let me flower under your touch!”

Every night Jaakko clings to the edge of the bed and waits, and every night Tomas runs in his sleep, and in their dreams they never meet. Only when they wake will Jaakko and Tomas will roll into each other’s arms, in the bed they have shared for twenty years. “Good morning, Park-keeper Nyland,” Jaakko will murmur, and Tomas will say, “My Jaakko, at last!”

“At last,” Tom whispers. 

He dreams of his long lost Russian soldier, who is bleached bone now in a ditch, under a thorn bush, on a hill, outside Stalingrad. “Never so happy as when I was in your arms. Oh, wait for me, my Finnish boy!”

“I’ll never forget,” Tom says, very softly. He cries, in his sleep, for all the handsome sailors and tender soldiers who did not come back from the war.

“Remember me,” says the quiet Lieutenant with the gold-rimmed glasses, and the tall, blond private with the fat, dark balls, and the sergeant with slender wrists and slender hips and the ring through his dick... “Hey there, soldier,” the sergeant says, with a sly sideways glance, amused, a man among men. In Tom’s dreams, they raise a glass together at the end of the bar, his soldiers, elbows knocking, hands on shoulders, thighs, bare-chested, unbelted, unbuttoned, bare-assed, naked but for their boots, “Come on, boys, hold it together now-” but, “Oh, oh, oh,” the Lieutenant sighs, eyes closed, head thrown back, impaled. 

Kake smiles, pulls on his riding boots, and slaps his crop against the leather. He’ll go by Lacey, Jack, Ringo. Kake. Sometimes he has a moustache, a motorbike, a whip, a tattoo, several. If anyone is the hero of Tom’s dreams, it’s Kake, blond, wily, shameless everyman Kake, horny fucker, hard as nails, brass-balled. 

He winks. In Tom’s dreams, he brandishes a six-shooter, a wrench, a pair of handcuffs, a lasso, a baseball bat, a very big dick and the balls to go with it, a leather cap, insignia, his tongue. No one gets the better of Kake. He’s Tom’s Lone Ranger, his knight of the road, his leather-jacketed dom, just as willing to switch as he is to start the party. 

Kake raises a glass. “To you,” he says. “To all the men I’ve ever loved.” 

There are many, and they love him back. In his dreams, Tom smiles.

Klaus laughs. Here in Tomtown, in the sketched, sketchy flat above the garage with its dismantled engines and stacks of old car magazines and boxes of parts and Italian bike bits and tools and tyres and half-empty oil cans and half-full grease cans. In his dreams, as he does every day of his working life in Tomtown, Klaus says to his workshop crew, his eager, nimble-fingered boys, “Tighten those nuts, polish off those knobs, detail those seats, and if he asks, stick it like a piston in his BTM!”

As they do in the long, glorious workshop day, Klaus’ boys answer, “Yessir!” and every one of them undoes another button and cups their bulging tools in their hands. 

“Good boys,” Klaus says. “My good, good boys.” He dreams of gleaming chrome and lubricated shafts, sticky rubber and butter-soft leather, the perfect suck-blow-fire of the perfect stroke and the ready smiles of his hard-working staff. In his dreams, every invoice issued is stamped with a satisfied splatter of spunk. 

“Oh, my bad boys,” sighs Hellmut Lampi, Tomtown policeman, yearning in his dreams after all the wicked, law-breaking, laughing prisoners he has marched to the tiny cell of his tiny prison. “My, bad, bad boys. Let me snap my silver handcuffs on your wrists and test my truncheon on your skin. I will spank your bottoms until you beg me to stop, and then I will spank you some more.”

“Yes,” Tom says. “Yes, yes, yes!” 

Kake slides out of the handcuffs and filches the truncheon. He licks it, end to end, and smoothes his moustache. 

“No!” Hellmut yelps, and drops his trousers.

In Tom’s dreams, in his own, Stal pulls his on. The leather is soft with wear, firm over his ass, loose at his knees. He tugs his broad belt closed and buckles it, frames the heavy fall of his balls and the long, hard line of his dick just right in his bulging crotch, grins, and drags on his socks and his boots. Over the wide-muscled flat plains of his chest he pulls a t-shirt, and then, protective, tribal, his studded leather jacket. He reaches for his cap, and in the mirror, angles it just right – jaunty, never camp – and jangles his keys. Then he tucks his gauntlets into his back pocket and strides out into the night-time dreaming sunshine, where all chrome and metal and power his bike waits at the side of the road. “Take a ride with me,” Stal will say, smiling, to the boys by the side of the road with their canted hips and their cocked-up thumbs, and they do. Stal rides his bike hard, and his men harder. 

In daytime, in Tomtown, the dockyard stevedores and coal-black loaders and crane drivers and wreckers and ship captains and ship’s boys crowd the wharves, heaving sacks and chests and flesh. Hard men, seamen, men with knives in their pockets and gold in their ears, but at night...at night Commander Toivonen, Harbourmaster, dreaming, sets sail admidst a fleet of pricks and rocks against the peaks and troughs of tattooed arms and muscled thighs. “Ah, Davy,” he whispers in his sleep, “Franz, Hamid, Carlos, Li, my handsome boys who sail the salty sea, weigh your anchors here a while with me...” And comes to rest on the billowing seas of their manly chests. “I love you all,” Commander Toivonen tells his bold sailors, his honest, true seafaring men, subsiding in a gentle sea of salty foam.

In Tom’s dreams, the Tomtown sailors swagger and pose, bell-bottomed trousers laced to their tight, slim waists, sleeves rolled up over faded blue tattoos. Far from the Tomtown docks, he sails a friendly ocean, reeled and caught in rough camaraderie. Kake’s eyes glint, amused: Tom is dreaming deserts, skyscapes, mountains, LA cops and New York gangs, cactus, cars, priapic pines – Tomtown’s scenes enfold them all, this dreaming world. 

So, Tom dreams Roope. In Tomtown, in a small, neat apartment, in a small neat flat, asleep under the smooth ironed plains of his sheets, Roope gallops on a painted pinto pony across the purple sage of the rifle-touting hat-tipping badge-wearing buffalo prairie, roping steers and heifers and the wild, tasselled Indians. He rolls with them in the heated dust of an American horizon, and they grin back at him, the feathered Sioux, the beaded Comanche, the Shoshone, the pony-back heroes of his boyhood grown to men and venturing with nimble fingers the metalled buttons of his Levi jeans. “Ole!” Roope cries out to the endless blue of the sky, undone, uncovered, free.

And Kake. Kake girds his loins and straps on his chaps, takes his dick in one hand and weighs his balls in the other – bigger is better: biggest is best – and strides through Tomtown dreaming with a clatter of spurs. One dick is good: two is better. Kake looses his dungarees, buys a motorbike, picks up lumberjacks and advertising executives, pierces his nipples and shaves his sideburns, takes on two hijackers and foils three kidnappers, polishes his boots for a licking, takes up gardening, painting, foils. His buckles get bigger, and so do his nipples: his caps flatten, he gets older, but no less horny. Three dicks are tempting: four are plain friendly. Five are fun, six is a stretch, seven need choreography – Kake’s sweating – eight’s a team, no one gets left out, nine’s an orgy, ten’s – 

Kake stumbles on trembling legs to the edge of the park, jeans hanging open, dick limp, and mops his brow with his handkerchief. Even Kake – even Tom - 

And in the tiled, swept-clean mirror-gleaming emporium of his Tomtown barbershop, Manfrid, dreaming, is trimming, with ice-sharp razor and diamond-edged scissors a van dyck, a spade, a goatee, a Shenandoah: he advances with glee, clutching his Bavarian Castor Oil Wax, on a glorious handlebar moustache, an elegant Fu Manchu, a proud Rajputana, curling and tweaking and caressing.With badger-hair brushes and pig-bristle combs, he tends muttonchop sideburns and chin curtains and sidewhiskers, tenderly whisks combovers into place and brandishes clippers for a crew cut, spikes mohawks and twirls Byronic curls...anything, anything other than...he shudders. 

But every morning, every single morning Tom dreams, Manfrid will wake up to the cloned, serried, identical ranks of the ordinary moustache.

**Author's Note:**

> Tontown Blues, obviously, owes a great deal to Dylan Thomas' _Under Milk Wood_.


End file.
